


Sweet Home

by Daegaer



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: M/M, N/A - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-05
Updated: 2008-02-05
Packaged: 2019-07-06 11:04:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15884766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: Crawford buys Schuldig a present, and hopes he doesn't think it a romantic gesture.





	Sweet Home

"What's this?"

Schuldig was looking at the printouts blankly, like he couldn't quite make the connection between the pictures and the forms filled out with one of his many aliases. He looked up in bemusement and Crawford found himself hard-put not to clear his throat in embarrassment.

"It's a house," he said. "It's yours." _Do you like it?_ He forced the thought down. "Feel free to read over the details."

"A house," Schuldig said, picking up the top sheet and raising his eyebrows at the bright picture showing white walls and vibrant flowers. "It's in _Barbados_."

Crawford shrugged. "There will be ample opportunity to rent it out and recover some of the cost," he said. Which was probably a mistake, because it made Schuldig look at the price.

"It cost three point one million dollars!" Schuldig breathed. "Three. Point. One. Million. Fucking. Dollars. _Christ._ " He skewered Crawford with a look. "Where exactly did you find a spare few million and how come you didn't share it with me?"

"First," Crawford said with dignity, "I spent it _all_ on you, and second, I speculated on some high paying ventures and then . . . hit the casinos with the money." He hated the cocky grin that spread over Schuldig's face, he decided.

"Oh, when _I_ do that sort of thing it's an unimaginative, childish use of my talent but when you do it it's a business venture? So, what high paying ventures were these, anyway? Don't tell me you were advising drug dealers on the best days to move their shit again?"

Crawford ignored him in preference of picking up another of the print outs. "I've already arranged with a letting agency to have it rented to holiday makers – wealthy ones, obviously. That should easily cover regular maintenance, and whatever's left over goes into a high-interest bank account, also in this name. You can't make withdrawals for the first five years, but –"

"Why have you done this?"

Schuldig had gone from looking amused to looking suspicious. Crawford kept his own expression and tone mild.

"You've been rather extravagant in the past – I thought that something that would give you a guaranteed income would prove useful to you in the future. We can't always depend on being as comfortable as we are now."

"No," Schuldig said. " _Why_ , Brad? Why this, why now?" He looked worried suddenly. "Are you dying?"

"What? No! Don't be an idiot."

"Are you going to be killed on our next job? What about me – am I going to get so fucked up I can't work afterwards? Is that what this is about?"

Crawford found it easy to grin at him. Trust Schuldig to go straight for the melodrama. His grin widened as Schuldig's worried expression took on a distinctly irritated look at the overheard thought.

"No. I just thought you'd find it useful," he said. "It'll give you a retirement fund. Don't look at me like that, you know I've a practical turn of mind. Don't you like it?" He was vaguely proud of himself for sounding off-hand, as if he didn't particularly care. He decided he'd never tell Schuldig precisely how long it had taken for him to get the money without ending up blacklisted in every casino he'd visited.

"It's not bad," Schuldig said, in exactly the same tone. He stroked the photos lightly, before neatly gathering all the printouts together and holding them a little too carefully against himself. "I guess I could stand to visit there once in a while, at least."

"That's good," Crawford said casually.

"Yeah," Schuldig said.

There was a moment's silence.

"You want to watch the news?" Crawford said, gesturing at the TV.

"Yeah," Schuldig said gratefully, flopping down into Crawford's favourite chair.

Crawford didn't complain, just sat on the sofa and watched Schuldig watching television, the printouts on his lap. He wouldn't tell Schuldig about the thought he'd had, the pair of them become too old and too wise for their current business, sitting in the garden of Schuldig's house, drinking beer without a care in the world. It wasn't a vision, after all, just wishful thinking. It didn't seem like the kind of thing Schuldig would really want to hear.

Not out loud, where neither of them could deny it had been said.


End file.
